Fradator
by aadarshinah
Summary: In which Rodney needs to learn to think before he speaks. #15 in the Ancient!John 'verse
1. Pars Una

_Fradator_

An Ancient!John Story

* * *

"We seriously need to come up with a name for this baby."

Rodney scowls quickly at him from over the top of the device he's working on, which looks like the love-child of a wood lathe and a toaster oven. "You've declared yourself the god of naming things. _You_ come up with one," he snaps-

-and almost immediately he regrets his word choice. Looking up long enough to meet John's eyes (which have already darkened and shuddered, like a ship battening down for a storm), he continues, "Yes, yes. Sorry. Bad word choice. Obviously. But the point stands. If you won't let anyone else name anything, the impetus falls to you. So get on with it already."

"No," John argues immediately, tone starting out terse before slipping into something that could – possibly, maybe – be considered conciliatory. "Other people can name stuff too. Just not you."

"I'm heartbroken. Truly, I am. Now hand me that."

John rolls his eyes, but passes over the data device nonetheless.

"So," he asks impatiently, "what's the hold-up then?"

Shrugging now, "Can't think of a good name for it."

"Then let's just use _ZedPM recharger_ and be done with it."

Rodney can't see John's reaction, having knelt down to remove one of the as-yet-unnamed device's side covers, but he _can_ hear the distaste in his simple, "No."

"It's a machine to recharge ZedPMs. We don't exactly need Dantean levels of allusion here."

"I'm not asking for Dante. I'm asking for something not quite so ridiculous."

"Tell me, Colonel, how is naming something after its function _ridiculous?_"

"It is when you call it a _ZPM recharger,_" John huffs, and Rodney doesn't need to look up from the mess of wires, piping, and crystals he's working on to know the other man is pouting across the room with greater skill than someone his age should really be allowed to have.

"Says the man who nicknamed a battleship _Rory," _Rodney huffs himself and kneels further down, trying to get a better angle at the device's insides.

It's probably ironic that, while he's managed to find a superconductive material for the electromagnet they'll need to cause the while hole inside the dead ZedPM to jumpto another universe, the whole effort might be undermined because they can't seem to keep the transistors that act as go-between for the whole process from overheating in during their simulations.

Probably.

All Rodney really knows is, healthy appreciation of irony as he has, the problem is now reaching levels that border on the absurd. Sure, there are a couple more things he wants to try before taking the device apart and rebuilding it with more transistors and a more elaborate cooling system, but that's not the point. Which is that this problem shouldn't be happening.

He's just about to point this fact out to John – loudly, and for the third time in the last hour – when he realizes John's been talking all this time and Rodney's got not the slightest clue what he said. "I'm sorry, what were you saying?"

"I _said_ maybe there's something from Terran mythology we could name it after."

That's surprising enough that Rodney actually pokes his head around the side of the device to stare at him. "I thought you hated mythology." Vehemently, and with a vengeance otherwise reserved for Wraith and anthropologists.

John just shrugs.

"Hmmm. Well, I'd say something to do with Prometheus and whole _stealing fire from the gods_ thing, but that's already taken, so I've got nothing... And," he groans as he rises to his feet, "I can't do anything more here until I find a better way of cooling the transistors."

"Then find a better way of cooling the _transistra."_

"I will. Just not right now." Rodney has it on good authority that the mess is serving cake with dinner tonight (as part of Cadman's promotion thing, though Cadman doesn't know it yet) and, while that's not for another hour or so, he knows if he starts troubleshooting the problem now, he'll work straight through dinner – and, more than likely, the next three meals that follow. As pressing as their need for new ZedPMs is, it's not so pressing as to risk hypoglycaemic shock. Or missing cake in the mess.

Plus, he wants Zelenka on hand before he starts tinkering on the system and _he_'s scheduled to be working on _Aurora_ for the rest of the day. And, while it's entirely within his rights to pull Zelenka off that project and back on to this one, they'd all discovered the hard way that the ship's AI doesn't take kindly to what she views as _unnecessary_ delays in her repairs.

By which he means that Rory makes John's life a living hell, complete with headaches and the occasional nosebleed. John seems willing to ignore all this in favour of going about their jobs as they normally would (his exact words on the subject sound disturbingly like they've been ripped from a parenting guidebook), but Rodney is not.

If John suspects he has ulterior motives, he doesn't show it. Or, at least, seems to suspect _different_ ulterior motives, as everything about him – including the way he's leaning against one of the nearby workbenches – shifts from _languid and bored _to _sex on a stick_ – in an instant. "Never thought I'd see the day when you'd voluntarilyleave your lab when there was fate-of-galaxies work to be done, Rodney," he grins. "Though I don't suppose we'd actually have to _leave_ the lab."

"Are you kidding me? This is a clean room, not to mention anyone could walk in on us at any minute. _Of__course_ we've got to get out of here."

John's smirk just gets wider. "My quarters are closer."

* * *

John's quarters _are_ closer, though that's something of a relative term where the city's transporters are involved. They're in the middle of this quiet and otherwise disused hallway on the west side of the Central Spire, with a transporter that connects to all of the main hubs in the city on one end and a stairwell that connects the top twelve levels of the tower on the other. The view is impeccable, and, with the rest of the Expedition quartered on the south-east pier, his nearest neighbour is a mile-and-a-half away.

His quarters are also, without a doubt, the smallest in all of Atlantis.

Rodney also knows without a doubt that there are other, larger rooms on this hallway alone, with just as magnificent views, and can only assume that John's reasons for choosing it are wrapped up in any number of his myriad issues regarding the life he'd lead before they'd found him. Particularly when he has to know where all the best rooms are.

But whatever. John can keep the room if he wants. He just wishes, "You should think about getting a bigger bed."

John snorts. "And put it where?"

"I don't know. What I _do _know is that it's positively ridiculous for a grown man to sleep on a mattress like this."

"I've slept on worse," he says, not entirely reassuringly, and continues changing into his dress blues.

Rodney's eyes narrow with disbelief. "When?"

"That night in that inn on M3-"

He winces, remembering, but insists, "I meant long term."

"It's not actually that bad, Rodney."

"But it _is_ small."

"So?" he sighs, doing up the last of the buttons on his shirt, "We usually end up at your place anyway."

"But sometimes we don't," he points out, gesturing at the bed beneath him. He knows teenagers the world around have made excellent use of twin mattresses, but they're not teenagers and this certainly isn't a twin. "So forgive me for – rather rationally, I might add – thinking we're going to fall out of this bed one day and, believe me, that is _not_ an infirmary visit I want to have to explain to Carson."

"I doubt we could do ourselves enough damage that I," John holds up a hand and allows it to glow with a bright, impossibly white light for an instant before going back to his tie, which appears to be giving him far more trouble than that act of near-Ascension, "couldn't patch us up, no embarrassing infirmary trips required. But, if it's really that big a deal, we can just make sure we always go to yours from now on. I really only suggested mine 'cause I knew I had to change into this penguin suit after."

"Tuxes are _penguin suits," _he informs John, an idea suddenly lighting into his mind, one that will solve all of their problems. It's so obvious he can't imagine why he's never thought of it before. "_Those_ are dress blues."

"Any bird that doesn't fly is ridiculous and so am I in this thing."

"You do not look _ridiculous_," Rodney scoffs, momentarily distracted by the sight of John in his dress uniform. "_Hot_ is what you look. I'd even go so far as to say that the sight of you in this uniform alone has given me a whole new respect for the military. But _ridiculous_ you most certainly are not."

"Whatever," he snorts, clearly not believing a word Rodney's saying. "You coming to the ceremony or going straight back to the lab?"

With a groan, he pushes himself out of bed and starts gathering his own things. "I'll have to go back to my quarters to change first either way, which brings me back to my idea."

"What idea?"

"The one I just had that would solve all our quarters-related issues."

Adjusting the sleeves of his jacket now, John frowns. "I wasn't aware we _had_ all that many quarters-related issues."

"This bed, the clothes; the fact that I can't remember the last time either of us was able to spend the entire night at the other's rooms, amongst others. Please at least _try_ to pay attention."

"I _am_ paying attention, Rodney. I'm just not sure it's helping."

"What I'm trying to get at here is that you should move into my quarters. Or we can find new ones and share those, 'cause there's no way two people could fit in here. Either way: you, me, cohabitation." He beams at John. "What do you think?"

"I think," John says slowly, his own expression doing strange, unidentifiable things before it slips into a deliberately unreadable mask. "I think," he repeats, his voice bright and somewhat contrived, "that I should go track down Major Lorne and make sure I've got this penguin suit on right. See you after the ceremony?"

"Hey, John, wait just a minute-" starts, hurrying to finish dressing, but it's too little, too late, and by the time he's gotten his pants back on, John's long out the door. "Great," he says, collapsing back onto the bed. "That's just... great."

All the lights in the room flicker and the windows, which had been open to the ocean air, snap themselves shut.

"Did I ask for your opinion?" he snaps at the ceiling. Then, with a sigh, "But I screwed things up big time, didn't I?"

Atlantis dims the lights completely and lowers the ambient temperature in the room by several degrees.

"Yeah. That's what I thought."

* * *

Once he gets dressed, Rodney doesn't even bother tracking John down. It's an exercise in futility trying to get John to talk when he doesn't want to, particularly when it comes to anything remotely resembling feelings.

So he does what is probably the best thing he _can_ do at the moment and tracks Teyla down instead.

"I think I made a mistake," he says the moment she opens her door. "A huge, ghastly, terrible mistake and I need your help to figure out what I need to do to fix it."

Teyla steps away from her door. "I am sure the situation is not as dire as that, but, please, sit down." He does and, after the door closes, does so herself. "Now, please, tell me what is it you think you have done."

So he tells her.

"I do not think you see it sometimes," she says delicately at the end of his tale, her expression now one of deep concern, "as close as you are to him, but Colonel Sheppard is a very... unique individual."

Rodney snorts at this. "Of course he's unique. He's the last Ancient in whole universe; it doesn't get much more _unique_ than that."

"While that is true, that is not entirely what I mean to say. Which is that that, for all he tries to make it appear otherwise, the difference between himself and this city's other inhabitants is by far greater than the difference between any two of us, whatever planet we may be originally from."

"Yeah, John's an alien, in the full, conventional sense of the term. I know that. You know that. We all know that. What I _don't _know is what you're trying to get at here."

"Only that things which may mean one thing to us may have completely different connotations for him. Take his Ancestral title, _pastor_. For him, it means caretaker of this great city. For most of your Expedition, however, it is a title of religious leadership which he eschews."

Rodney frowns at her. "We're not talking about the meaning of a single word here. I asked him to move in with me. That's got to mean the same thing in every culture."

"Maybe it is the implications of the statement which are different."

"What _implications_? From everything he's ever said about the Ancients, they were bigger on free love than a Robert A Heinlein novel. Whatever _implications _there may be, they should, if anything, be _less_ for him than what they would be for anyone else."

Teyla gives him a look that's half amused and half sympathetic and entirely too knowing for Rodney's comfort. "Perhaps that is the very reason he is so hesitant about this. The fact that it was such a simple matter for the others of his kind may well be making him wish to be especially certain before doing so."

"That's just- I mean, there aren't words for how ridiculous that is. And, even if it wasn't, John and I have been together for what? Fourteen months now? That's not such a radical time to start talking about these sorts of things, is it? For people of any culture."

Plus, everything John had ever said had given every indication that he wanted this thing between them to last just as much as Rodney did, but he isn't going to Telya that, just in case he's wrong and this _is_ the start of some implosion he'd been too stupid and too short-sighted to prevent. It'd be bad enough if – when – it did end. He didn't need to make it worse by everyone else knowing just how wrong he'd been.

But Teyla is, amongst her innumerable other, equally frightening talents, apparently a mind reader, and appears to guess all the things he's dared not say. "Rest assured in his affections for you, Rodney. I believe this merely to be a misunderstanding."

"What," he huffs, "is there for me to _misunderstand?_ I ask him to move in, he walks out. It's fairly simple. We're talking grade four math simple here. One plus one _does__not_ equal twelve sort of obviousness. And, I've got to say, considering I came to you looking for some sort of a way to, I dunno, _fix_ it, you've not been very helpful."

Her lips thin. "As I have said, I do not believe there is anything for you to fix. Considering the stress the Colonel has been under of late, it is quite possible that you merely chose an unfortunate time to bring up the subject."

Rodney snorts instinctively before taking a moment to mull her words over. He supposes it _is_ true, but, "By that logic, there's _never_ going to be a good time to talk about it."

Teyla's mouth opens to say something, but whatever it might be is cut short by an announcement over the citywide that anyone not immediately involved in operations vital to the city – which would be many people, at this almost-dinnertime hour – is welcome to join the majority of the military contingent in the mess for a special ceremony.

Looks like Cadman's promotion ceremony is about to begin, even if she doesn't know it yet.

"Give him time," Teyla says after this, patting his knew before standing. "These sorts of things require it, no matter what their circumstances. But, come. I would not wish to be late for this celebration of Lieutenant Cadman's prowess as a warrior."

Rodney _harrumphs_ but follows. Cadman may creep him out on oh-so-many different levels, but there's going to be John and cake, and, well, that's a combination he can't exactly ignore.

* * *

The thing is this:

Pegasus is, by definition, a stressful place to be. Even (especially) for those native to it. On one hand there are the Wraith, who are terrifying in a way no horror movie on Earth could ever quite hope to come close to, and then on the other there is the very real possibility that, in playing with technology that no one – not even Rodney and certainly not John – comes close to completely understanding, they'll end up killing themselves in some sort of violently spectacular manner.

Then add to that the fact that the _Daedalus _is, until they get the ZedPM charger up and running or finish building the intergalactic gate bridge he and Sam have been working on, their only means of contact with Earth. While the Expedition _can_ sustain itself with the goods they're able to grow in Atlantis' greenhouses or trade for off-world – and, in fact, had done so for an entire year – the fact remains that all of their munition, medical supplies, and reinforcements are tied into the continued existence of that one ship. And while it is theoretically possible for them to manufacture the former, if they can come across the right raw materials, there are limits to what even Rodney can build with the materials at his disposal.

The safety of Atlantis is, by definition, tied into their technological superiority of the Expedition. Should things ever deteriorate further with the Genii or the Wraith ever discover the city isn't as destroyed at they'd like them to believe, those weapons and those soldiers are the only thing standing between them and a very unpleasant death.

And, okay, they have a ZedPM, but it's only _one_ ZedPM, and not even a fully charged one at that. After the power they used to manufacture more drones (five thousand, the smallest number John said could hold back an armada of similar size to the one the Wraith sent last year) and that they've already used for the bimonthly check-ins with the SGC, they've the power to either: _A_, run the cloak for one hundred nine years, two hundred fourteen days, twenty-seven hours, and twenty-six minutes. Or, _B_, run the shield, under constant bombardment from Wraith weaponry, for eight days, two hours, and thirty-two minutes.

In the event should the Wraith ever return, they are effectively dead without more ZedPMs. More ZedPMs give them more options, like activating the stardrive and getting the hell off Lantea and onto some planet far, far off the beaten path. Or, at the very least, sustain the shield for a longer period. But, again, to do that they need more ZedPMs. Two of them, in fact, and preferably fully charged.

And Rodney's working on the ZedPM recharger, he really is, but the cooling problem is really more difficult than it had seemed when he was initially drawing up his plans, which is just about the worst way for this to end. They need the transistors to stay cool so they can carry the energy from the charged ZedPM they already have to the electromagnet they've built to make the white hole inside the dead ZedPM jump to another universe filled with all sorts of zero point energy goodness. They need to use the charged ZedPM because no amount of naquadah generators operating in concert would be able to provide the kind of power they need to operate the electromagnet at the power required to accomplish their goal. But even the best transistors aren't designed to handle the kind of raw power a ZedPM can generate, so Rodney's needed to incorporate an elaborate power-distribution and cooling system into the device. Only something is not right, as it's not working like he expected in simulations.

In short, though: overheated transistors equal failure equal no ZedPMs equal death by Wraith.

And, okay, they have the _Aurora_ now to help defend them, but she's about as badly damaged as it's possible to be without being consigned to the great junkyard in the sky. And, while it _is_ possible to repair her, it's going to take a lot of materials that they just don't have access to in the Pegasus galaxy – things like the titanium-yttrium alloy which make up her hull or even the valves for her water-recycling system, - which again means that they're reliant on Earth and the _Daedalus_ to supply them with what they need. And _Daedalus_ can only carry so much and travel so fast.

Of course, if they _had_ the ZedPMs, they could make use of the designs John's father had left behind with his hologram to fabricate robots that could go out and _find_ the materials needed for the repair job, as the Ancients must have done during the Siege – miners that could extract the ores they needed from uninhabited planets, processors that could refine the ores into usable metals; service 'bots that could help carry out the repairs to the ship _and_ Atlantis – but to do so, again, would require more ZedPMs than they currently have or runs the risk of leaving them seriously underpowered when the Wraith eventually arrive back on their doorstep.

All of which means: they're basically screwed five ways from Sunday, but that's nothing new, because if it's not ZedPM rechargers and Ancient spaceships, it's Wraith armadas or Genii plots or _Vanir_ spaceships or deadly-if-misused Ancient tech. The Pegasus galaxy offers little to no downtime between crises.

Which, to boil it down still further: stress is a constant on Atlantis. Yesterday is no less stressful than today is or tomorrow will be. Only the stressors change.

So the idea that bringing up, oh, say, the idea of him and John sharing quarters today is little-to-no different than bringing it up tomorrow or next week or next year. There _never_ will be a good time for it, at least until the Wraith are gone, so asking the moment the idea pops into his head shouldn't be such a big deal.

Q. E. D.

Besides, this is _John_. John is Mr. Laid Back himself. He is the anthropomorphic personification of cool detachment and nonchalance. It takes people _shooting_ at him for John to appear even the slightest bit perturbed and, sometimes, not even then. The only real times Rodney has ever seen him truly, genuinely angry have been when someone's actively threatening the safety of Atlantis.

Then again, John _doesn't_ like to talk about the past. Or himself. Or his feelings. And, while John has been surprisingly upfront with words like _I love you_, he's never actually _talked_ about their relationship. Which Rodney supposes now, in retrospect, might've been a logical first step before springing the whole _let's move in together_ thing on John.

But still, hindsight is twenty-twenty, and walking out on the conversation has to be an overreaction in anyone's books. Even an Ancient's.

Rodney's brooding all of this over, waiting for Cadman's promotion ceremony to begin, when Carson slips into to the seat beside him, and more or less ignores the conversation that strikes up around him.

It's not until Teyla asks the doctor, "How is Michael doing?" that Rodney remembers the particular stressor to which she might have been referring earlier:

Michael, the first trial of Carson's Wraith retrovirus, is being released from the infirmary and into general population this evening.

Yeah, Rodney can see how that might put John in a foul mood.

* * *

**a/n: **_Fradator_ means _Deciever_ in Latin.


	2. Pars Dua

_Fradator_

An Ancient!John Story

* * *

_Pars Dua_

* * *

It starts like this:

Carson, fairly out of the blue at the senior staff meeting they've had every seventh day at 0900 since arriving on Atlantis (circumstances providing), says that he's done all the work on the Wraith retrovirus he can do without a live test subject.

"Are you certain that your research is really at that point?" Elizabeth asks, lips piercing with distaste, as they always do whenever the time comes for the grey-area dilemmas she never seems entirely comfortable with making – as if _talking_ a subject to death will suddenly push the choices into clearly definable black and white boxes. Don't get him wrong, Rodney would much rather have civilian oversight than military, but things seem to take so much longer to decide here as compared to when he was working for the Air Force. And time is very much of the essence in the Pegasus galaxy.

"It's possible we could make some minimal progress with fresh Wraith cell cultures..."

"But to do that," John finishes, "we'd need to capture a Wraith anyway, so why not just go whole hog?"

"That was my thought as well, Colonel," Carson agrees, looking relieved beyond measure that they've not simply dismissed his idea outright. "A few days with a live test subject could be worth months of theoretical work."

John leans back further in his chair. Both his feet are already propped up on the conference table and his hands, which had been tucked behind his head, gesticulate vaguely in Elizabeth's direction as he says, "It shouldn't be too much of a problem to capture one if we can lay the right ambush."

"And you don't have any problem using prisoners for scientific experiments?"

"They're _Wraith_, Elizabeta."

"There are _rules_ to warfare, John," she insists.

"On Terra, yeah," John says, taking his feet off the table and allowing the front legs of his chair to hit the floor with a thud. "But we're not on Terra. And even if we were, those rules don't do a lot of good if both sides don't follow them. And I think we can all safely say by this point that the Wraith would never follow any sort of Geneva Convention, even if Pegasus had one."

"Are you saying that the Ancients _didn't_ have laws regarding the treatment of prisoners of war?"

"I'm saying that it doesn't matter _what_ laws exist, the Wraith won't follow them, so there's no reason we should bother with them either."

"We can't just toss the rules out the door every time they make things difficult for us, John."

"Rules don't do anyone any good if there's no one left alive at the end of the day to follow them."

"It doesn't matter," Elizabeth insists, her tone caught between indignation and incredulity. "We'd be no better than the Wraith-"

"They have a point," Rodney breaks in before their argument can further inflame the tensions between the pair. It seems like John and Elizabeth have only _just_ gotten over their last argument, whatever it might've actually been about, and last thing they need is for the head of the Expedition and the commander of its military contingent to be at loggerheads. Again.

Elizabeth turns her suspicious eye on him now. "Don't tell me you're actually thinking of going along with this."

"We _are_ only talking about one Wraith here, not about creating our own version of Auschwitz."

"Yes, _today_ we're talking about only one. But what about later, when it's ten Wraith, or twenty, or a hundred that we need to test your retrovirus on?"

"I'm sorry," John interrupts, "but when did we start having genuine _concern_ for the Wraith?"

"Just because they're the enemy doesn't mean we have the right-"

"_Caecique surdi alii_, Elizabeta! They are not just our _enemy_. They are our _predators._ They will not stop until they have culled every man, woman, and child in this galaxy – and, if you've no care for the Descendants of _this_ galaxy-"

"I respect _all_ life, regardless of where it originates, John. You of all people should know that."

John ducks his head a little, conceding the point, but the heat is still in his voice when he says, "They're not going to stop. Even if they never make it to Avalon, they're going to continue to cull this galaxy to the brink of extinction again and again. And I won't let that happen, not if there's anything I can do to stop it. Carson's retrovirus presents us with an opportunity to get rid of the Wraith once and for all with minimal risk to ourselves. Even if it goes against everything you believe in, you have to know it's the right thing to do."

Elizabeth hangs her head for a moment before, "Alright. You have a go. But," she stresses, "only if we can pull this off without bringing another armada down on our heads."

"Piece of cake."

"How?" Rodney can't help but ask, because nothing – _nothing_ – involving the Wraith is ever simple. Or easy.

"We still have the tracker we pulled out of Ronon a while back, right?"

Ah. "You want to reactivate it on an uninhabited planet and hope they only send a couple Wraith to check it out."

"Caught us Steve, didn't it?"

"That could actually work."

Smiling beatifically at him, "Your faith in me is astounding, Rodney," John says before pushing himself out of his chair. "Radio me when you get it working again. I'll be checking the database for a good planet to lay the ambush."

* * *

But that was fifteen days ago and, honestly, beyond the initial capture, Rodney really hadn't much reason to be involved with Michael after that, so he honestly thinks he can be forgiven for more or less forgetting about it while he worked on other, more important projects.

But back to the ceremony.

* * *

"At ease guys," John says when he takes the podium someone had found somewhere in the city and dragged to the front of the mess for this occasion.

He's grinning at the assorted ranks of airmen, sailors and Marines like the cat that caught the canary – which he pretty much is, as he and Major Lorne had gone to extraordinary lengths to make sure that no one outside of the senior staff knew what the exact purpose of the ceremony was beforehand.

(Rodney's not exactly sure _why_ they chose to do so, though he likes to think it has something to do with the _excesses_ Cadman had taken while in his body. But, again, he's not really sure. For all he knows, it's actually part of some bizarre military ritual that will end with them all jumping off one of the piers into the ocean or something equally as idiotic.)

"Sorry for all the secrecy," John continues, "but it's kinda impossible to keep a secret in this city, and we _really_ wanted it to be a surprise...

"But first things first: For those of you with stakes in Doctor Zelenka's pool, I feel I should let you know that this _isn't_ a military review; neither General O'Neill nor General Landry are visiting, nor is anyone from the IOA; no one's in trouble – and," John's grin, if possible, actually manages to get wider, "as for the four of you had me and Doctor McKay getting married, let me just say that I know _exactly_ how much each of you put down and, if and when that should happen, I expect _very_ nice wedding presents."

Rodney winces at this. It's not so much because of the snickers that fill the room as Teyla's subtle _I told you so _elbow to his ribs.

Okay, maybe she had, and maybe it's nice to have confirmation that he's not completely ruined things by asking John to move in with him. But still, this is John they're talking about. Just because he's joking about their relationship in public doesn't mean that they're ever going to talk about it in private. And maybe it's just the scientist in him, but Rodney would really, really like to know why John was so violently opposed to the idea that he just _walked out _on the conversation, if only so he can avoid making the mistake again in the future.

He deserves that much at least. Doesn't he?

The laughter dies down and John starts speaking again. "Seriously, though. We're not here for anything like that. We're here because of you. Because each and everyone one of you volunteered for the most dangerous posting your world has ever known. Because you've each gone so far above and beyond your duties in protecting this city that there are honestly no words that could do justice to the courage and the commitment you've shown. You are men and women such as the universe has never seen, and it is my honour to be your commanding officer.

"My only regret," he says, John's voice that kind of serious he only gets when someone's threatening the safety and security of his team, "is that, Terran bureaucracy being what it is, it's proving harder to get you all the medals and awards I think you deserve. I had hoped to make this a big joint ceremony but... Lieutenant Cadman? Mind joining us up here?"

John steps back as Cadman comes forward, gesturing to Lorne as he does so.

The Major takes his place at the podium with a manic grin of his own, which sobers only a little when he starts reading from a cue card. "Attention to orders."

The entire military contingent snaps to attention as one. Even Rodney, who's been working for the Air Force since '91 and so over their pomp and circumstance that it's not funny, can't help but be impressed.

"The President of the United States," Lorne continues when Cadman reaches the podium, "acting upon the recommendation of the Commandant of the Marine Corps, has placed special trust and confidence in the patriotism, integrity, and abilities of First Lieutenant Laura Cadman. In view of these special qualities, and her demonstrated potential to serve in the higher grade, First Lieutenant Cadman is promoted to the grade of captain, United States Marine Corps, effective the twenty-first day of March, two thousand and six, by order of the Commandant of the Marine Corps."

While Lorne recites this, John removes Cadman's old rank insignia and replaces it with the double bars of a captain. He appears to be saying something to her as he does so, something that causes her to blink several times, as if fighting back tears (which is _ridiculous_, because she is Cadman and therefore the devil incarnate, without emotion or feeling, save for the pleasure she derives in making Rodney's life as uncomfortable as possible). It's hard to tell for sure, though, 'cause immediately after John pulls her into one of those forehead touching things that seem to be all the rage in the Pegasus galaxy. When she steps back and gives him a proper Earth salute, there's no trace of it left on her face.

"Congratulations, Captain."

"Thank you sir."

"Want to say something?"

"And follow an act like that? No way. I say we go ahead and start the party." Cadman starts off the stage, pausing only when she appears to realize that John and Lorne aren't following. "There _is_ a party, isn't there?"

John snorts. "Permission to party given."

A cheer rises from the military contingent as they break ranks, some to go congratulate Cadman, others to drag the tables back into their proper places.

Carson snorts too as he rises to his feet. "She's a pistol, isnae she?" he says in that sickeningly adoring way he gets at the slightest mention of his girlfriend.

Rodney just sakes his head and goes in search of cake. Carson may be one of his best friends, but very, very little in the universe could convince Rodney to stick around while the good doctor waxes lyrical about Captain Cadman. So cake it is. If he's particularly lucky, he'll be able to corner John for a few minutes, if only to gauge how long it might be before things return to normal between them.

* * *

No one knows Atlantis like John does, which is half the reason that John manages to successfully avoid him for five days after Cadman's promotion ceremony. Not that Rodney makes himself hard to find – or to avoid – as he spends those five days almost entirely inside the clean room, working on the ZedPM recharger. But still, five days is five days. He gets that having Michael on Atlantis is stressful and that John's not on speaking terms with his feelings on the best of days, he really does, but five days is a bit excessive, even where John's concerned.

The part that's really galling though is that, when they _do_ finally run into each other, it's not because John's finally decided to man up and talk to him. Oh no. It's 'cause _Michael_ is having _dreams_ and Elizabeth wants to _talk_ about it. He gets that their work has to come first, he really does, but it's kind of staggering to see just how far down John's list of priorities he really is.

At least he has the grace to look sheepish when he enters the room and sees Rodney's already there.

"Hey," John says a couple moments later as he leans against the nearby balcony railing.

"Hello," Rodney replies stiffly. Because, God, John can't just _do_ stuff like this and expect he'll come running at the end of it and-

-and okay, yeah. He'd pretty much do whatever John asked if it meant staying with him, but that's a personal flaw, not an excuse for John to be a crappy boyfriend.

Not that John actually is a crappy boyfriend. His few flaws just tend toward the extreme, like latent suicidal tendencies and emotional retardation, rather than wet towels left on the floor, which Rodney really thinks he could live with if it meant cutting out the unnecessary drama in their lives.

John, to his credit, looks even more shamefaced at this. "Hey," he says, just loud enough for only Rodney to hear. "Don't be like that."

"What, honestly, did you expect me to _be like_ after ignoring me for five days?" he hisses back.

John's eyes dart to the room's other occupants and Elizabeth, who's just now walking through the door. "Can we talk about it after the meeting?"

"You promise you won't run off?" he sighs, not really wanting to having this talk with an audience either but not quite willing to drop it either, for fear it would be ten days this time before John deigns to speak with him again.

Naturally, Doctor Weir decides to start the meeting before John can do anything more than frown in response:

"Teyla says that Michael's been having dreams about being a Wraith."

"_One_ dream," Teyla corrects, "I have told him that it is a common occurrence given the way the Wraith feed upon us, but he does not appear to believe me. He thinks that the Wraith did something to him during his capture." She appears genuinely displeased that her concern has generated this level of response, as if she'd expected whatever she'd initially told Elizabeth to remain in confidence. As if she is actually coming to _like_ and _care for_ Michael.

The things he misses when he goes on lab benders, honestly. (And, just to be perfectly clear: _what the fuck_ is up with that? Last Rodney checked, the Wraith might be the only people in the universe that Teyla actively dislikes. Slapping a new coat of paint on one isn't likely to change that – or so he would've thought.)

"I don't like it. This could mean he's starting to revert," John says definitively, crossing his arms as he turns to face the others.

"Or it could merely be psychological. Doctor Heightmeyer should be able to help him through it if it is."

"And if it's not? I don't think I need to remind you just how bad things could get if we end up with a full-fledged Wraith running around Atlantis. I say we throw him back in isolation until we're a hundred percent sure your drug is working, Doc."

"You already have him under guard, John. I don't think locking him away is going to help his psychological state any."

"_Ceve_ his psychological state, Elizabeta. He's a _Wraith_. You might be able to make him look Terran, talk Terran, but underneath it all he will _always_ be a Wraith, and nothing Heightmeyer can do is ever going to change that."

"If that's how you feel," Doctor Weir asks sharply, "why did you push so hard for this project?"

John just shrugs. "To be honest? I thought that, if we can figure out how to deploy this as a biological weapon, it's possible we can hit entire hive ships and turn them into humans. Even if the effects aren't long-term, they should last long enough for us to be able to take them out."

Elizabeth looks aghast at this, but Teyla's quicker with her denouncement. "Once transformed by Doctor Beckett's retrovirus, the Wraith will be human, with no memories of what they once were. To kill them then would be as morally reprehensible as killing a defenceless child."

"Defenceless children who will grow up to be ruthless killers bent on sucking the life out of every living being in two galaxies," Rodney snorts, earning him a sharp look from both women.

John, however, gives him a thorny smile that seems to say _thank you! _and _I'm glad _some_body gets it _and _can you believe these people? _and maybe even _I'm sorry for being such an ass_ all at once. (Rodney used to think this was a uniquely John thing, this ability to be able to say so much without saying anything at all, and then he'd met Alianora Cado Trebal Legata in _Aurora_'s neural network. Despite the fact John claims little to no memory of his mother, he'd most certainly inherited this ability from her, as none of the other members of the ship's crew had come anywhere close. Not even her uncle, the captain.) Still, the smile only goes so far in making up for the last five days, particularly when it quickly fades into the grim, "Look, I get that you've got qualms with killing folks. It's a good qualm to have. But this is a military situation and military situations require military solutions – in this case, killing as many Wraith as possible before they kill us, regardless of what they happen to look like at the time."

"Yes, yes, John, we get it," Elizabeth snaps. "The Wraith killed the Ancients and so you want to kill them. But we just can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because it's just _not right_."

"Oh," John says cuttingly, rocking back on his heels in a way that suggests he's physically forcing himself not to take a step forward, "well, if it's _not right_ why didn't you just say so in the first place? _Stellis in universum_, Elizabeta. I get how much you want to find a peaceful solution to this, but it's just not going to happen."

"If Carson can perfect a long-term solution that could suppress the Wraith elements for a lifetime..."

"They'll still be Wraith."

"And that's reason enough to kill them? When they're human and defenceless and have no memory of their past actions?"

"I've lived through one genocide. Forgive me for not wanting to go through a second."

"By committing one of your own?"

He shrugs. "If that's what it takes."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that point," Elizabeth states resolutely.

An uncomfortable pause follows. It goes on long enough that Rodney fills compelled to say, "Well..." just to fill it somehow. "Even if we don't end up using the retrovirus as a weapon, we've got to do _something_ about Michael. Increase his dose or put him under better guard or something."

Teyla shakes her head, her earlier anger slowly easing back toward mere discontent. "The guards are already a source of contention for him. More guards will only increase the stress and, likely, increase the frequency of his dreams."

"And," Carson adds, "I'm hesitant to increase his dosage at this time. I've specifically calibrated his regimen according to his current physical condition. Any alteration could adversely affect his recovery. I say we remain patient and see if Doctor Heightmeyer cannae resolve this issue."

"I agree. Teyla?"

"As do I."

"Rodney?"

"Short of stopping this experiment now," he frowns, "I don't see what other choice we have."

"Good. Colonel?"

John frowns for a pull eight seconds before reluctantly agreeing, "Alright." He uncrosses his arms and shoves them, somewhat too carelessly, into his front pockets. "But I reserve the right to say _I told you so_ when this all goes to pot."

The corner of Elizabeth's mouth twitches at this. "I think we can do that. _If_ things end badly, which I don't think they will."

"Let's hope you're right."

* * *

a/n: 1) I wanted to call the retrovirus the B_ellerophon drug_ or _Operation Bellerophon__, _as that hero in greek mythology not only concured Pegasus, but the Chimera, which is a term often used for mutated viruses in medicine. But it didn't fit, so if you see it later, that's what it is. 2) _Caecique surdi alii_ is roughly _blind and deaf others_, which is another Ancient swear that probably works best if you don't question it too much. 3) The entirety of Lorne's speech is a modified version of the AF officer promition one, as I couldn't find one for Marines online. From what I know, I think it's right anyway. 4) Yeah. I'm wordy. Sorry.


	3. Pars Tria

_Fradator_

An Ancient!John Story

* * *

_Pars Tria_

* * *

At last, the meeting ends. It's hard to tell who's the most relieved about this, but it's obvious that the only one who might actually have wanted to be there is Elizabeth, and, well, _she_ almost has as much of a thing for meetings as John does for _space guns_. Either way, Teyla and Carson take off fairly quickly for parts unknown, leaving John, Rodney, and Elizabeth alone on the Isolation Room balcony.

"Hey, buddy, there's something I've been meaning to show you," John says after a moment, as if he actually has just remembered something that he's been meaning to show him and isn't simply trying to avoid another argument with Elizabeth. Maybe he even does. It's always hard to tell. John hides himself very well for a man who acts like he's got nothing to hide.

"Yes, yes. Why don't we...?" Rodney gestures at the stairs and heads for them himself. "See you later, Elizabeth."

"Be careful you two."

"Always," John grins back at her before following, doing so in such a way that Rodney feels compelled to tell him when they reach the bottom of the stairs-

"You know, she thinks we're going off to have sex."

"So?"

"So? What do you mean _so_?"

"I mean that everyone always thinks we're having sex every time we go off alone somewhere."

"Seriously?"

"Rodney," he says slowly, as if explaining the concept to a small child – albeit with a slightly more manic grin on his face than one would usually be comfortable having around young children, "they have an ongoing _office pool_ about our sex life. _Of course_ they think we're having sex at every possible opportunity."

"That is just wrong on so many levels."

John shrugs and offers a careless, "It doesn't hurt anyone."

"It hurts _us_!"

"Does it?"

"How does it _not_?" That would explain the strange looks his underlings are giving him lately, during the rare moments he isn't in the clean room, trying to get the ZedPM recharger online. "And I thought you promised to shut them down this time."

"I may or may not have encouraged Carson to share fifty percent of his winnings with us if I gave him the _details_, as it were, regarding one of the larger pots."

"Yes, yes, brilliant plan. Completely genius. One problem though." Rodney slaps the back of his idiotic, floppy-haired head. "We'd have to _tell people_ about our sex life to ever cash in on it."

John retaliates by flicking him on the shoulder. "They're going to find out eventually. Might as well make it work to our advantage."

"No they're not. They are _not_ going to find out because we are _never _going to tell them."

"You underestimate the resolve of the Terrans on this base when it comes to that much coffee."

Rodney pauses at this. "How much coffee are we talking about here?"

"Fifty-three pounds, two ounces after Carson's share is taken out."

"That's a lot of coffee."

"My thoughts exactly," John smiles at him. It's not his usual sort of smile – the kind that seem perfectly fine and normal until you started looking too closely, after which they seem too bright, too congenial – but the softer, realer kind that he almost exclusively reserves for Rodney, the rest of their gate team, and, occasionally, Elizabeth. It's softer and somehow manages to be both incredibly dorky and an incredibly sweet at once, and is made all the sweeter by the fact that John _hates_ coffee, and so can only be doing this for Rodney's benefit.

But still, "Did it have to be Carson?" Theoretically, he knew some people talk about their sex lives with their best friends, but Rodney has never been one of them, and the idea of Carson knowing, well, _any _of it, no matter how vague, makes him distinctly uncomfortable. More so, it might make the doctor compelled to share the same, and, well, no. Just no.

"Well, Zelenka banned Lorne from the black market pools after the whole _when did they start seeing each other_ incident a while back and I figured that you'd never forgive me if I told Cadman, so it was either Teyla or Carson, and Teyla could care less about coffee."

"How is it you can be so up front about _sex_ but turn heel at the first mention of _feelings_?"

And, just like that, things are exactly back to where they were five days ago, when he was asking John to move in with him. Only this time they're standing in the middle of an otherwise deserted hall, and their only saving grace might be that this time Rodney's looking straight into his eyes this time when he speaks, so that he actually catches the emotion that flickers there before John can paper it over with something else.

And it's not anger or annoyance or any of the number of other things Rodney had been more or less prepared for. It's genuine panic.

This more than anything is what prompts him to reach out and put his hands on John's hips. He's not sure why he does it, only that it seems to be the thing to do, and, well, Rodney hasn't got any better ideas with how to deal with this than that.

It _does_ however appear to be the right thing to do, as Rodney can feel the tension in John's body drain out of him at the touch. And then John's stepping forward, so much so they couldn't get any closer without serious removal of clothing, and touching their foreheads together in a way that's both completely chaste and impossibly desperate.

They stay like that for a long while, just holding each other like their lives depend on it in the middle of a hallway really anyone could walk down any second. It breaks every unspoken rule they've made for themselves, but they need this more than they need their stupid rules and, besides, those have been crumbling for a while now. Who cares if anyone _finds out_ about them? Everyone already knows anyway and if it's proof they want, well, Rodney's just glad there's still proof to be had.

He knew, logically, from everything John said at Cadman's promotion ceremony, that things weren't over between them. Not yet. Not by a long-shot. But, God, it's one thing to know something in the head and another thing entirely to know it in the heart.

(There are times when Rodney wonders if that's not the most important thing he's learned since coming to the Pegasus galaxy, to include everything he's learned about Zero Point Modules and the recharging thereof.)

Eventually John even speaks up, saying, "I don't want to mess this up," with such definitiveness that it's clear he believes that's an actual, genuine possibility – as if anything he could do at this point could send Rodney running. But, again, the head and the heart are entirely two separate organs, and human physiology was patterned off of Ancient.

"You won't."

John's dark chuckles are warm puffs against his cheek. "I am, historically, terrible at relationships."

"Maybe just a little."

John laughs even harder at that, like he's making a _joke_ instead of, well, basically admitting that he's about a thousand times better with people than Rodney will ever be when he's _not even __human_, but before he can say anything else, the Colonel's comm goes off.

They're standing close enough that Rodney can hear a tinny voice coming over the radio, but not close enough that he can actually make out what's being said on the other end, only that John promises whoever is on the other end that he'll be right there.

"It's Sergeant Anderson and Doctor Losev again," he says after he's tapped the channel off, stepping away with a flattering reluctance.

"Seriously? That's got to be like the third time this month they've gotten into it."

"I'm thinking about just locking them in a room together and not letting them out until they kill each other or make out."

Rodney snorts, but there's no real malice to it. He feels a little much like he's been broken and only haphazardly taped back together to have any real malice left in him. "Tell me how that works out."

"Yeah," John breathes, running a hand through his hair. "Look I'll... I'll track you down as soon I've sorted them out, okay?"

"Yeah," he echoes. "I should get back to the clean room anyway. We finally figured out what the deal was with the transistors and... Well, I'll tell you about it later."

* * *

"Hey there buddy," John says precisely seventy-two minutes later, carrying a mug in each hand. He sets them both on the workbench next to where Rodney's currently removing an IGB transistor from a very delicate and sensitive device, and Rodney can't even bring himself to snap at John for breaking clean room standards _again_ because presumably one of the cups contains coffee, which he's been craving with an addict's desperation for half-an-hour now but been unable to get because it's a _very _sensitive piece of equipment he's pulling apart and he'd rather not be without a fluxgate magnetometer for the month or so it would take get a replacement from Earth, should something unfortunate happen.

"You are a godsend," he breathes, taking the coffee and downing half of it in one go, taste buds and expensive lab equipment be damned. He's more likely to make a mistake do to caffeine withdrawal at this point than fry the circuitry with coffee anyway, so it all for the best anyway.

John cants his head to one side and appears to consider this for a moment before deciding, "Try to remember that next time we fight," is the appropriate response.

Rodney's head snaps up, coffee momentarily forgotten. "We weren't fighting. _You_ were being an emotionally-retarded idiot, but _we_ weren't fighting."

"Tomayto, tomahto," he says, which is somewhat hilarious coming from an Ancient whose language doesn't have a word for the fruit. Then, far more earnestly, "I don't like it when we fight."

"We _weren't_ fighting."

"Felt like it to me," John shrugs, considering a nearby stool with his back to Rodney. After a moment, he appears to decide it's too much work to walk the few feet to retrieve it and elects to sit on the workbench itself, brushing parts of the magnetometer's insides aside to clear enough space.

"Fighting implies argument. This was..." he waves the mug in his hand about idly, searching for the right word, "I dunno what you'd call it. Failure of trade negotiations, maybe." He shrugs himself before going back to the IGB transistor. "It's not like I'm going to dump you if you say no."

He finishes disconnecting the IGBT and replacing it with one of the MOSFE transistors they'd originally slated for the the ZedPM recharger before he realizes that John's not said anything in over five minutes.

"Holy shit," Rodney exclaims, looking up to see the other man staring intensely at his shoes, "someone actually did that to you? No, wait, better question: who was stupid enough to dump you in the first place, whatever the reason?"

This, at least, coaxes a bit of a smile from John, even though that hadn't been Rodney's intention. Even so, the Colonel doesn't answer right away, just continues to swing his feet back and forth for a few moments before saying, "I don't really want to talk about it."

"Well, I'm not sure I really want to _hear_ about you being with someone else either, but we're just going to keep having these awkward conversations until you let me know what subjects to avoid for the future."

John gives him a small, thankful sort of smile this time – the kind that can only be called a smile by virtue of not being a frown. "It's not so much the _talking about Nicolaa_ part I mean – though I can see why you wouldn't want to hear about her. I don't know if I'd want to hear about your past _amatores_ either. It's more..." his eyes drop to his shoes again, "it's easier, not talking about Before."

"Easier," Rodney repeats flatly.

"To pretend."

"You don't have to pretend."

The Ancient snorts, as if this is the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard, right up there with pre-Copernican cosmology and Don't Ask, Don't Tell. But at least he's _admitting_ that he's pretending now. That's more than Rodney had been able to get out of him six months ago.

"Seriously, John. You can't possibly still think we're going to turn on you and string you up from the Gate the moment you let your inner alien out. I mean, it's been nearly two years. You've _got_ to know us better than that by now."

"_You're_ the aliens here, not me."

"Yes, yes," Rodney says, dismissing the subject with a wave of his hands. "So you keep saying. But it's kinda hard to remember when the most non-human thing you ever do it slip a few words of Ancient into a sentence now and then, and, really, with the number of non-native English speakers on Atlantis, it's not that unusual. Usually I have a more difficult time making sense of what Zelenka's saying, and we're from the same planet. Thus my understandable forgetfulness."

"It's called a _translation_ matrix for a reason," John drawls, tapping two fingers on his temple.

"I'm not saying you have to start talking it tongues or anything."

"Only that you want me to _talk _about Before."

Rolling his eyes, "Not in an _anthropological _sense. God. Like I'd ever ask you to do that to yourself. Just..." He glances at the pieces of the magnetometer spread about the table. "I don't want to mess this up either."

"So how do you propose we do that?"

"You're asking me?"

"You _are_ the only one else in the room, Rodney."

"No, seriously, if you'd _any_ idea of my track record with relationships, you'd not be asking me that. We'd be better off asking _Ronon_ what he thinks we should do." Knowing Ronon, it would involve knives. Or sticks. Or guns. But most likely knives and those he feels can only make things worse.

John laughs – softly and honestly, in a sort of way Rodney's come to interpret as _do you even listen to the things that come out of your mouth_."Ronon's actually not that bad when it comes to advice about these things."

"You talked to him about this?"

"_You_ talked to Teyla."

"Yes, well- Wait. Did she tell you that? Why would she tell you that?"

"I have my ways." He swings his legs back and forth with a little more enthusiasm, "Teyla have anything helpful to say?"

"Only that I should _give you time. _Ronon?"

"Only that our courtship would've been considered _unnecessarily long_ on Sateda. And that, if I'm not going to make an _honest_ man out of you, I might as well make you a _dishonest_ one."

Rodney's very glad he's finished his coffee, because otherwise he'd be sputtering it all over the magnetometer's exposed circuitry. "_What?"_

"It works better in the original Satedan."

"I imagine."

"My version leaves fewer bruises," John informs him, looking inexplicably smug.

"You know what else leaves fewer bruises? _Not sparing _with Ronon in the first place."

"I'm getting better."

"At hiding your bruises, maybe," he mutters darkly, picking up a screwdriver and beginning to piece the magnetometer back together.

"I'm hurt that you'd even think that."

"Yes, well, I'm hurt that you walked out on me while I was trying to have a serious conversation with you and then avoided me for five days, so I guess we're even."

"What was I _supposed_ to do, Rodney?"

"Well, I don't know how it worked on Ancient Lantea," Rodney says heatedly, "but on Earth when someone asks you a question, generally you're expected to answer it."

"And say what exactly?"

"I don't know. _That's why I asked_. Contrary to popular belief, I don't just talk for the sake of hearing my own voice."

"I-" John begins. Then pauses. Then pauses some more until Rodney has to actually look over and check to make sure John's not slunk out of the room, because he's got the sneaking about thing down pat and 'Lantis will do anything – _anything_ – for him, including helping him make a clean break from a conversation he's fairly certain the city wants them to have. John's still there, but obviously not planning on continuing any time soon if the way he's staring into his tea cup is any indication.

"You don't want to, do you?"

Rodney tries to be kind about it. He really does. But he can't help the way the words come out, quiet and hurt and entirely too vulnerable for his liking. But he's never been able to hide anything – at least, not anything that actually matters.

John recoils at this. The movement sloshes more than a little tea onto his pants, but the Ancient doesn't seem to notice. "It's not that," he ventures, the words coming haltingly, as if he's dragging them (kicking and screaming) out somewhere deep and hidden inside of him, somewhere John doesn't let even himself see, as if the very act of acknowledging its existence would steal from him everything that makes him _John_ or _Iohannes_ or whatever the hell he thinks of himself as. "It's just... I don't want to mess this up."

"I think we've established that, yes."

The glare this earns him is half-hearted at best. "And, well, you said it yourself. It's been weeks since either one of us has been able to stay the entire night."

"All the more reason we should share quarters."

"But don't you think we should like... I dunno _practice_ or something?"

"Practice," Rodney repeats, baffled.

"Y'know," he says, swinging his feet more anxiously now, "like maybe rack up more than a handful of nights here and there before we dive in and, y'know, start talking about things like paint swatches."

"You talk paint swatches with Atlantis already."

"Yeah, but that's just 'Lantis. She likes paint and stained glass windows and hacking into the SGC's servers every time we dial Terra-"

"She does?" John had never told him that. Plus, weird, even for a city-wide artificial intelligence.

"Some people collect stamps. She collects data. Mission reports and online encyclopaedia entries, mostly, but some pretty bizarre stuff too."

Rodney decides he doesn't want to know what an Ancient, who apparently talks openly about their sex life with their closest friends, might consider bizarre. Though it _does_ make him wonder, "Is _that_ why there are all sorts of new MPEG-4 files on the shared server after every dial in? 'Cause I thought that was just Jackson trying to butter us up for the day he finally gets O'Neill to let him come and annoy us."

"Yeah, that's her."

"That is... very odd."

"It keeps her happy," he says in a way that makes Rodney's stomach clench – not out of fear of what might happen if the city were ever to become _un_happy, but of all the things John would do to keep that from ever happening. Then, somewhat less haltingly than before, "I'd be happy too if we could have a few more dry runs before giving the whole _moving in_ thing a go. I just really don't want this to mess things up between us."

"I don't see why it would, but," he sighs, "yeah, you're probably right."

"I am?"

John sounds so startled by this answer that Rodney pokes him with the screwdriver. Lightly. More or less. "Well, you _do_ have a point. It probably _is_ better to spend more than a handful of full nights together before moving it in case you have any irredeemable habits I don't yet know about. Like leaving wet towels in the middle of the floor or hogging all the covers."

"That's good to know."

"Oh, and not pulling this _cold shoulder_ crap again might help things. I'd rather have you yelling at me than pretending I don't exist."

"That's good to know too."

"Teyla also thinks _moving in together_ meant something different to you guys," he adds, examining his work on the circuit board. All the connections appear sound. The new transistor shouldn't make too much of a difference to the magnetometer's systems and might even improve its sensitivity, but it's still a pain in the ass to have to do.

He's managed to trade out seventeen of the twenty-four IGB transistors they'll need to make the ZedPM recharger functional this way, but that still means he has seven more to go. That's another two days of switching out transistors from other equipment, two more to install them in the ZedPM recharger itself, and then at least thirty-six hours of simulations. With any luck, the Wraith won't try to destroy the city before then.

"It didn't. Not really. It just wasn't that common, that's all. I mean, _sometimes_ couples with small children would do it, but mostly when people did it was 'cause they were siblings, or parent and child, or... well, that's mostly it, really."

Rodney's pretty sure the exact expression for what he's feeling now is _like a heel_. "So when I asked you to move in, you thought...?" He has no idea how _children_ might work with them, but they've come across plenty enough orphans in the Pegasus galaxy for that to be an option, along with surrogacy and attempting to get the Ancient extra-uterine incubators back online again. It's... well, it's a daunting thought. And, more than anything else, one he _knows_ they're not ready for, if they ever will be.

"No. Not really." John gives him a sheepish look. "But it brought back some unpleasant memories."

"Care to elaborate?" he asks stupidly, too distracted by the idea of trying to raise a child to really consider his question.

"I told you about the woman I was with Before right? Nicolaa?"

Something clenches in Rodney's stomach – though it does send all thoughts of children running from his head. "Vaguely, yeah."

"We were together for a while. Five and a half years, actually, but we'd been close long before we ever got together. Since she was born, really. Anyway, things got to the point where she wanted us to have a baby, which was just a ridiculous idea in so many ways, and we got into such a huge fight over it I ended up leaving Atlantis."

"You _left_ Atlantis? You _love_ Atlantis." The idea of John leaving is like... is like John suddenly proclaiming himself a god _à__ la _the Ori or the laws of gravity deciding to take a holiday. It is equally parts absurd and impossible, even for the Pegasus galaxy.

"Tirianus needed a _pastor_, and 'Lantis understood. She loves kids, but even she knew that having one with the way the War was going then was insane."

"God, John. I'd no idea..."

"You'd no way of knowing," he shrugs, as if this revelation means nothing at all – as if it _will_ mean nothing at all if he tells himself that often enough. "So, what are you doing anyway? Ever figure out what the deal with the _transistra_ was?"

Rodney tells himself he only agrees to the abrupt change of subject because he's pushed his luck with John's emotional constipation enough for one day. But it's a weak lie at best. He'd do anything not to talk about children or ex-girlfriends right then.

So he explains that the original designs he'd drawn up for the ZedPM recharger had called for a superconductor material being brought in from Earth and that, with the yttrium-based compound they'd found in one of the Ancient labs, the ZedPM recharger could operate at higher temperature than they'd originally planed. While this is great for several reasons, the MOSFE transistors the _Daedalus_ had brought them for the project just can't operate at those temperatures, so he's been switching out the MOSFETs with the IGBTs from devices they already have on base. _Those _should be better able to handle the higher temperatures and, therefore, not strain the cooling system so much, giving them a means of recharging their dead ZedPMs in as little as five days.

And if the thought crosses his mind that he's glad Nicolaa's dead, if only so she's not able to hurt John any more? Well, Rodney chooses not to examine it too closely.


	4. Pars Quattor

_Fradator_

An Ancient!John Story

* * *

Pars Quattor

* * *

"This whole thing was a bad idea," Ronon snarls, pacing the conference room in a way that suggests that they better come up with a solution to this whole _Michael knows he's a Wraith_ problem soon or heads are going to roll. In the literal sense.

He'd _told_ John it was a bad idea to let Ronon get that sword.

"No, it wasn't," John says, pushing away from his spot against the wall to block Ronon's path. "The retrovirus works, that much is clear. Just think, if we can make it work as a biological weapon...?" He lets the implications lie.

"No, it's just a bad idea. Your fancy science has done _nothing_ to help fight the Wraith the entire time I've been on Atlantis. It's just been a bunch of failures, first with that weapon on Arcturus and now with this stupid retrovirus. You of all people should know, Sheppard, that the only way to beat the Wraith is with force, not with fancy tricks and stupid dreams." And then he turns heel and resumes pacing back the way he'd come.

John, wisely, moves out of the way before the Runner can make it back to where they'd been standing, and slides into the empty seat next to Rodney at the conference table.

Elizabeth, less wisely, tries, "I'll be the first to admit that I wasn't particularly thrilled by this idea either when it was first presented to me, but you've got to understand how the idea of winning this war without risking any more lives is very attractive to us."

"You know, you may be able to make him look like a human, talk like a human, but he'll still be a Wraith. Nothing you do will ever change that."

"Maybe, maybe not, but if we can find a way to make take away their need to feed on humans-"

"They'd still be Wraith and, instead of culling humans to feed on, they'd take us to use as slaves like those goa'uld did back in your galaxy."

"If," John pipes in, leg bouncing agitatedly under the table, "they don't just kill us all out of spite. Which is a genuine possibility and precisely why we need to end this experiment now. We've learned all we can safely know. Maybe one day, after Carson's done some more research, we can come back to it if we like. But right now we have a viable way of weakening the Wraith and a threat to the security of this base, so I say we cut our losses and end this thing."

"I'm with Sheppard on this one," Ronon says immediately.

Rodney frowns and closes the lid of his laptop, which he'd been using to keep an eye on the simulations he's running on the ZedPM recharger back in the clean room. "As much as I hate to say it, so am I. We can't keep him locked in his quarters indefinitely and he knows far too much about Atlantis for us to just let him go. Killing him may be the only humane thing to do."

"We are the ones who have done this to him," Teyla says, somehow managing to come across as both reasonable and unyielding at the same time, "and in doing so we have made him our responsibility. The fact that our experiment did not go as planned does not change the fact that Michael is human now. Killing him now would not be an act of self-defence, but of murder. Granted," she concedes, inclining her head towards Ronon, who has by this point retreated to a corner of the Conference Room to cross his arms and look menacing, "a part of him may still be Wraith, but with time and compassion, perhaps we will be able to make him see that what was done to him was done for the better."

"And what exactly do you propose to do with him until then, hmm?" Rodney asks, one hand resting on the conference table and the other sliding beneath it in an attempt to get John to sit still. "'Cause I'm sure keeping him locked in his quarters is bound to go over real well."

"We could allow him to move about as before," she suggests. "If he can see that we mean him no harm, he will be more willing to see our side."

"Out of the question," John says, somehow managing to sound bored by the proceedings despite the fact that his leg is _still _bouncing irritatingly under the table, where no one can see. "It was bad enough idea giving him access to the city in the first place. Who knows what kind of damage he could do if we let him wander around when he _knows_ he's our prisoner?"

Elizabeth speaks up then. "We would, of course, increase his guard and further restrict him from all but the most public of areas."

Hand still on John's knee, Rodney can _feel_ the other man tense. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Doctor Beckett said it himself: having a cooperative test subject would allow his research to go far more quickly. We've been presented with an amazing opportunity. Taking this small risk now could potentially pay off a hundredfold in the future, particularly if we can get Michael to convince the other Wraith to voluntarily undergo this treatment."

"We're talking about one hell of a risk, Elizabeta."

"No bigger than the one we've already taken. We'll give it a few more days," she says with an air of finality. "If Michael shows no signs of being willing to cooperate, we'll put an end to this experiment then. But until such a time, we'll continue on as before. With any luck, Carson will find a solution soon and the problem will solve itself."

* * *

"Hey, Rodney. How are the simulations going?" John asks, sauntering into the clean room hours later.

It's been long enough for status bar on the most annoying of the simulations' status screens to creep from eleven to thirty-six percent but Rodney's apprehensions regarding Elizabeth's decisions about Michael still remains. He knows that Elizabeth knows what she's doing and that she's not made the choice to continue with what John's calling _Operation Bellerophon_ lightly, but the fear that something terrible is about to happen remains.

It's a feeling that Rodney's become very familiar with since arriving in the Pegasus galaxy.

It's also a feeling that's been proven correct more times than not, and that's the most worrying part of all.

"Slowly," he says without looking up from his bank of computers, "but I've encountered no major issues so far, so it looks like we might be recharging ZedPMs as early as the day after tomorrow."

"That's good."

"Good? It's wonderful. Magnificent. Stupendous, even. In the course of less than four months, I've managed to reconstruct the Ancients' method for manipulating miniature white holes connecting the subspace of an untold number of disparate universes from nothing but three equations scribbled in a forgotten notebook – one of which, I might add, wasn't even all that helpful. I'd even go so far as to call it a miracle. A minor one, as I've pulled off far more desperate feats of genius in far shorter time frames, but a miracle nonetheless."

"Hey, I _found_ you those three equations, y'know," John points out, his voice coming from much closer now.

"Your contribution will be noted in my Nobel acceptance speech."

Mildly indignant, "_And _I helped you with the math."

"A little."

"A lot."

"Only 'cause you have more experience with base-eight math than I do. I can hardly be faulted for the fact that my ancestors chose to use a different system of numeration than yours did."

"Well..." John drawls in a manner that suggests he's more than willing to do just that.

"Think of it this way: if I take all the credit, it's fewer of those annoying _interviews by mail_ for you to have to deal with. How _are_ those coming along by the way?"

The last data-burst from Earth had included questions from a dozen different publications, all of which were looking to get an interview with the man who'd solved one of the Millennium Prize Problems – not that the Clay Mathematics Institute has yet conceded that John's proof _is_ the definitive solution to the Riemann Hypothesis, but that's only a matter of time. The SGC's PR department has been doing a minor miracle of their own, making it seem like John is unable to meet the journalists in person because he's in a particularly civilian-unfriendly zone of Afghanistan rather than an alien city in a different galaxy altogether, but the fact still remains that there _are_ questions that they can't answer for him. Thus the _interviews by email_ which no one is particularly happy about. Particularly John.

He glances up in briefly, just long enough to catch the John makes a face at the reminder. "Don't you get started on that too. I've still got half-a-dozen of those things left and Elizabeta's been nagging at me to have them ready for the next dial-in."

"Ah, the price of fame."

"I don't want fame."

"Well too bad, bucko. I've seen your notebooks," the real, spiral-bound paper ones that sit on the floor next to John's bed, filled with careful columns of Ancient equations and shaky lines of base-ten maths; the ones he's only seen seen John work on a handful of times, when he's particularly bored or anxious or when his nightmares get so bad that not even wandering Atlantis' halls will help. "I know what's in them. It's revolutionary stuff, right up there with Newton, Riemann, and Euclid. And, as messed up as Earth's priorities can be sometimes, people are bound to take notice when you start publishing."

"I don't see why. They're just a few proofs."

"Face it John: between your proofs and that hair, you're destined to be the closest thing to a rock star the world of mathematics has ever seen."

"Gee, just what I've always wanted."

Rodney snorts. "While we're on the subject though, _is _there something you want? 'Cause it's still two-and-a-half hours until dinner and if you'd wanted sex you'd have just come out and said asked. So...?"

"Yeah, actually. I ran into Lorne and Zelenka in the infirmary-"

"What were you doing in the infirmary?" he asks suspiciously, jumping out of his chair and walking around the desk to better examine his _amator_. John doesn't have any _obvious_ outward signs of injury, but with John that usually meant very little.

John just smiles indulgently and let's Rodney poke at him, trying to find whatever injury was serious enough to merit his visit to the infirmary. "I'm fine. Ronon and I just overdid it a little with the sparing and, well, my arm was easy enough to fix after Carson set the break." He wiggles the fingers on one hand as if to show just how easy.

"Ronon broke your arm!"

"Like I said, it was an accident. No harm, no foul. Worst that's going to happen is that it's going to be stiff for a while."

Narrowing his eyes, Rodney stalks back to his computers. "Fine, but don't expect me to come visit you in the infirmary when you wind up with the kind of sparring injury your magic Ancient powers can't heal so easily. I've got stuff on the go, you know: important, vital projects for the betterment of the human race."

John follows after, clearly amused. "You say that like I'm supposed to be surprised."

"Yes, well, you were saying something about Lorne and Zelenka?"

"Yeah. They were in the infirmary 'cause it's Lorne's turn to play light-switch for Rory's repair crewsandwhen he tried to activate the navigation controls, the whole panel started sparking. Luckily he got off with only a couple of burns on his hands. Nothing serious, but enough so that he's not going to be holding a gun for a couple days."

"You didn't...?" he waggles his fingers as John had done before.

"Of course I did, but I've never actually been all that good at healing, 'specially when trying it on other people."

"Let me guess: getting better requires meditation and all the rest of that Ascension crap you could care less about."

"Pretty much. But like I was saying, I ran into them while I was in the infirmary and told them about how Elizabeta's being overly optimistic with the safety of the city and Zelenka said he had an idea."

"What sort of idea?"

"I'm not sure. He didn't want to talk about it in the infirmary. We're meeting him and Lorne on _Aurora_ to talk about it twenty minutes."

"I'm busy-"

"-conducting important, vital projects for the betterment of Descendants everywhere?" John finishes, leaning over his shoulder. "Looks like you're just doing the digital version of watching paint dry to me."

"I'm not just sitting here, watching the status bar tick along you know." Rodney gestures testily at a different monitor, upon which a block of Ancient text and it's loose translation is currently displayed. "I'm also trying to break through some of the encryptions your dad used on his notes so we can get a better idea of what he was working on in those secret labs of his. You know, in case there's something else potentially galaxy-ending hidden away in them."

"I wouldn't put it past him."

"As seriously disturbing as I find that thought, it doesn't change the fact that he's got enough layers of security on this stuff to put even the most paranoid NSA agent to shame. I mean we're talking about hundreds of math cyphers and Ancient knowledge puzzles each with completely unique cryptovariables-"

"Conseuius," John says.

"What?"

The Colonel taps the knowledge puzzle on the monitor. "The answer to this one. It's _Conseuius_."

"You're the Ancient," Rodney says, humouring him. A moment later decrypted files begin popping up across the screen. "Hey, you're right!"

"Told you."

"But what was the question?" He's been able to determine it's something along the lines of _who and/or what was the best something-or-other_, but the database has been spectacularly unhelpful as to what that _something-or-other_ might actually mean. Rodney had been assuming it was a cryptogram of it's own or else something only Janus would know about, as that's just the kind of paranoid narcissistic bastard John's dad seems to have been.

"I'll show you later," John promises, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Right now we've got to go meet up with Lorne and Zelenka."

"Wait, _show me_? What do you mean by _show_?"

John just grabs a fistful of jacket and tugs. "It'll take too long to explain," he says, hauling him bodily towards the door with a grin. "You'll probably enjoy it though."

"Enjoy it? Enjoy _what_?"

* * *

_Aurora_ is a large ship, so Rodney's not really surprised when John leads them all to a room he's never seen before to have their discussion, particularly when it turns out to be somewhere in the ship's berthing area. Repairing the living quarters isn't exactly high on their list of priorities at the moment, not when the navigation system is still screwed and the hull is a patchwork quilt of issues.

He's not even surprised when John declines the invitation to sit next to him on the the bed that occupies one corner of the room, as John just doesn't use furniture like other people do, as if the thought of actually _sitting_ in a chair has never actually crossed his mind.

What _does_ surprise him is that, instead of sprawling on the floor or leaning against the wall or something else equally as absurd and John-like, he chooses instead to tap an innocuous wall-panel. A panel which proceeds to retract, revealing what appears to be the Ancient equivalent of a wall closet, contents intact.

What he suspects even less is for John to pull out of the garments – something that looks vaguely like a cross between a cassock and a great coat – and hold it up to him body, as if trying to determine it's fit.

"John, what are you doing?" he asks after a moment, when no explanation seems to be forthcoming.

"Shopping," is his answer.

Carefully, "I thought we were here to listen to Zelenka's idea about how to Elizabeth to change her mind about this whole Michael business."

"Two birds, one stone," John shrugs, tossing the coat – Ancient hanger and all – towards Rodney.

Lorne, who's taken up a spot in the centre of the floor, just grins at them. "You changing the dress code on us Sir? 'Cause I got to tell you, from what I saw when I was plugged into the ship, those uniforms didn't look very practical."

"They're not, but one of these days the people of this galaxy are going to find out I'm one of their Ancestors. I figure it's probably better if I'm able to look the part when they do." John continues rummaging through the closet. "But you said you had an idea about Michael, Doctor Z?"

From his perch on the edge of the bed, "Well, yes. But I do not think you are going to like it."

"I kinda got that much when you didn't want to talk about it in front of Carson. What is it?"

"I believe we must eliminate Michael. Soon, and in a manner that will not arouse Doctor Weir's suspicions."

John pauses at this. "You're talking about assassination."

"No, no," Zelenka says, pushing his glasses up his nose nervously. "Nothing so dramatic. I am merely saying that it would be best for all of us if Doctor Beckett's experiment were to be ended before the situation reaches the point where we can no longer control it."

For a moment, no one says anything. Then, "Wow, Doc," Lorne whistles. "I didn't know you had it in you."

"I do not, but that does not stop me from acknowledging that it must be done."

"I don't like Elizabeta's decision much either, but going behind her back like that? That could start us down a path I don't think any of us want to go down."

"Perhaps not," Zelenka concedes, "but it is the only course of action left to us. Doctor Weir means well, but she is blinded by optimism, and while in an ideal universe that would not be problem, we are dealing with a decidedly _non_-ideal universe. Everything we have learned of Wraith tells us that they cannot be trusted; the fact that he stole Doctor Beckett's research notes in first place proves that part of his nature remains untouched underneath his human exterior. I do not see that we have any other choice."

Rodney hums. "I don't think any of us are arguing that it doesn't need to be done. Unless Lorne...?"

"No," the man in question says. "I'm good."

"See. We're all in agreement. It's just, well, this isn't like last year. We've got the _Daedalus_ and can dial Earth whenever we want. If things don't go according to plan – and I mean _exactly_ according to plan – we could be talking about getting all our asses shipped back to Earth, to be locked in some forgotten cell at Area 51 for the rest of our lives."

"We've gone against orders before, Rodney."

He looks over at John, who's still riffling through the closet, albeit with far less enthusiasm than before. "Not like this we haven't. The IOA is pushing hard for Carson's retrovirus. It's like one of the only things they all agree on. If they even _think_ we intentionally screwed with their plans, they're going to have one of their puppets over here faster than we can blink."

"Then I guess we've got to make sure nobody has any reason to suspect it's anything but an accident."

"John, I'm serious."

"I know you are," John says, finally turning away from the closet. "If the IOA is pushing Elizabeta as hard as you claim, nothing we say is going to change her mind. But this is the safety of Atlantis we're talking about. Who knows what could happen if Michael were to get loose? We've got no other choice." He bites his lip. "You have a plan to pull this off, Doc, or were you just thinking we wait until Michael tries to escape and shoot him a few more times than is strictly necessary?"

"Actually, Evan does."

_Evan_? he mouths at John. When had _that_ happened?

John just raises an eyebrow at them both, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall by the closet as if it doesn't matter that their seconds are apparently on a first-name basis. "Let's hear it."

"The fire suppression systems," _Evan_ grins, holding up his bandaged hands.

Rodney's snapping his fingers almost before he finishes the sentence. "That just might work."

"_What_ might work?"

"The fire suppression systems are filled with halon gas, a substance which is deadly to humans after a relatively short exposure and should be even more lethal to someone whose health has been compromised say by, oh, recently being de-Wraithed."

"My thoughts exactly," Zelenka agrees. "The only problem would be making sure that only Michael and not his guards are exposed. But I figure we can avoid that if-"

"-if," Rodney continues for him, "we can make the city go into lockdown at the same time." Atlantis, after all, is nothing more than an exceptionally large spaceship. What few doors exist that aren't airtight have bulkheads automatically lowered around them in the event of a lockdown. Everyone in the effected area would be sealed in and, as Michael's guards were stationed _outside_ his quarters and said quarters were intentionally separate from those of the rest of the Expedition, only Michael would be effected if they were to, say, activate the fire suppression systems in all the rooms on that particular tower. "The question is how we do it without anyone suspecting it was us. 'Cause you know people are going to be suspicious when Michael suddenly drops dead after we've said how much we'd wish he'd do just that."

"We could rewrite the logs-"

Rodney waves off the suggestion immediately. "As much as I hate to say it, the idiots that work for us are actually smart enough to notice something like that. Or, at least, they should be. If not, I'm going to be having serious discussions with their thesis committees next time I'm on Earth out of principle. Because, seriously, PhDs are not participation awards; there should be standards. No, we're going to need something subtler., like a real fire."

John's eyes widen comically – or, at least, in a way that _would_ be comical if it wasn't accompanied by a sudden _agitato_ shift in _Aurora_'s song, one that drowned out whatever the city's own thoughts on the matter might've been. "You want to _set fire_ to part of Atlantis? Wouldn't it just be easier to wait for him to escape and shoot him then? 'Cause y'know he's going to try to escape sooner or later."

"It's your call, Sir," Lorne reminds him. "But there's a chance that if we wait for him to escape he'll succeed, taking who knows how many lives and what information in the process."

"Plus," Rodney adds, rubbing at his ears, "considering your love affair with the city, no one will ever suspect us of doing something that might damage 'Lantis, no matter how minor the damage might actually be. Now tell _Aurora_ that we've no intentions of actually harming Atlantis before my eardrums burst."

John pats the wall, which seems to calm the ship down. A little. "Just so you know, she's calling you her _vitricus malus_ now."

"What is this, _Snow White_?"

The Ancient stares blankly at him.

"Nevermind, not important. It's a bad idea anyway. It'd be next to impossible to start a fire without, A, getting caught by the Halon gas ourselves or, B, found out, so we'll need a different plan anyway."

John stops fondling the ship and walks into the centre of the room. Stopping a few feet from Lorne and Zelenka, he asks, "You're sure this is the best option?"

"Short of waiting for him to try to escape...? Yes."

"Then I have an idea about how we can start that fire," he sighs. "Doctor Z? How long do you think it will take for you to get Rory's weapon's systems ready for a live-fire test?"

"A day? Maybe two? We've been concentrating mostly on her navigation systems and structural integrity. But if you're planning on firing a drone into his tower-"

"Leave that part to me," John says, giving Zelenka a half-hearted grin at best. "You just get the weapons system operational."

"_Ano_, that I can do."

"Good." He offers Zelenka a hand up. "Remind me not to get on your guys' bad sides."

"No worries, Colonel. Revolutions are a time-consuming pastime and I am very busy trying to make your ship operational again. You and McKay's jobs are safe."

"Besides," Lorne adds, climbing to his own feet, "you're like my five hundredth great-uncle or something and I make it a point not to overthrow family."

"Y'know, Major, that's the sort of thinking that puts you on the short-list for the _second-favourite nephew_ slot," John practically beams. His smile drops, though, the moment the door snaps shut behind their XOs. "I don't know if I like where this road is going to take us, Rodney."

"And I do?"

"I know. Just..." he sighs and starts gathering up his ill-gotten clothing gains.

"I hear you," Rodney agrees because, well, as much as they all agree the retrovirus experiment has gone too far, they're still sneaking around behind Elizabeth's back.

Somewhere out there, someone must walking over his grave, because the feeling that something is going to go terribly, terribly wrong returns full-force.

* * *

John spends the night in his quarters – the first time since their mutually uncomfortable talk about their relationship five days before.

It probably says something that they use the opportunity to have eight hours of blissful, uninterrupted sleep rather than the hot monkey sex the situation probably deserves.

* * *

It's only because they sleep so late that Rodney happens to be in the transporter with John when the call comes in over the radio.

He doesn't hear the other side of the conversation. All he knows is one moment they're transporting to the mess for a late, hurried breakfast and the next John is snapping, "I'll be right there, Captain," into his headset.

"What's wrong?" Rodney asks, feeling vaguely sick as the transporter suddenly changes destinations, his partially-reconstructed cells being yanked back into the buffers and reconstituted elsewhere with more force than is really necessary.

"It's Michael. Apparently he's resisting-" John begins before going absolutely white and taking off running before the transporter doors are even all the way open.

Rodney follows after, but he's still around the corner from Michael's quarters when the screaming starts-

-followed by the sound of gunfire; one, two, three shots in quick succession, then-

-quiet.

That's when he rounds the corner.

That's when he sees the bodies.

* * *

**a/n:** 1) Conseuius is one of Janus' lovers. 2) _vitricus malus_ is _evil stepfather_. 3) I've two episodes of SGA left in my rewatch, so that's what I'm going to go do now. But reviews will help part 5 come faster.


	5. Pars Quinque

_Fradator_

An Ancient!John Story

* * *

Pars Quinque

* * *

"Control Room, this is McKay. We've got three men down outside Michael's quarters," Rodney barks into his headset, running the last few yards faster than he ever has in his life. "One's been fed upon. They're all alive, but we're going to need a medical unit and a couple teams of Marines down here right away – and, for the love of God, _don't _send Carson."

Elizabeth's voice is calm and steady over the radio; if Rodney didn't know her so well, he'd could almost have said she's unconcerned. "Teams are on the way." She pauses. "Why not Carson?"

"Because," Rodney says, kneeling down beside the white-haired woman in the grey-on-black uniform of Atlantis' military contingent, "I'm fairly certain Captain Cadman is the one Michael fed upon."

This brings a quiver to Elizabeth's voice. "How is she?"

Pressing two fingers to her pulse point, "Alive, for the moment." He glances quickly up and down the hallway before pulling off his jacket and balling it under her head. Remembering Gaul, he grabs her pistol and (checking that the safety is most definitely _on_) tucks it into his waistband before continuing, "The other two are just unconscious. There's no sign of John, Michael, or the other SF."

"What happened?"

"I dunno. John and I were in the transporter when the call came through – something about Michael resisting. Obviously he's reverted further than we'd-"

Cadman groans.

"-and I think Cadman's waking up. I'll let you know more when I have something." Rodney clicks his radio off without waiting for Elizabeth's reply. "Captain? Laura? Can you hear me?"

"Rodney?" she asks vaguely, voice as rough and faint as his chain-smoking Grandmère's. It's _wrong_ in a way that he can't even begin to describe.

"Yeah, it's me. Just listen, everything's going to be alright-"

"Don't-"

"Hey, you know me. Would I be saying it if it wasn't true?" he reminds her, brushing an lock of hair off her forehead. He may not particularly _like_ the Captain, but apart from that whole incident with Katie Brown, she's a good egg – _a pistol_, as Carson would say – and John adores her in a way Rodney would be insanely jealous of if it wasn't so obviously platonic. She doesn't deserve this. No one does, and seeing her like this just reinforces the fact.

Laura's birthday is in two days. Carson's been planing a surprise party, as much as anything can be a surprise on Atlantis. She's supposed to be turning thirty and she looks like she could be ninety years old.

"Go. Help Sheppard."

"I'm not going to leave you here."

She gives him a smiled that could've been called teasing if it isn't so obviously pained, "I knew you liked me."

"Please."

"Face it, Rodney, you're just one big softy."

"Lies." He's only doing this because of Gaul. And Ford. And Everett. And Sumner. And because he doesn't think he'll be able to sleep at night if he just leaves her here.

Besides, trying to help John chase down Michael is only going to get one of them hurt. No, it's better for everyone involved that he stay here and let the people who shoot things for a living do their jobs. Nevermind the fact that it'll be another minute or so before the reinforcements reach his position, or the fact that his job has taken a decidedly _shoot things to live_ turn of late. He's staying here and that's that.

"You can't lie to me. I was in your head, remember?" she whispers, trying to raise a hand to his face. It falters before it's even halfway.

He takes her hand and pats it awkwardly before placing it back on her chest. "Yet you thought I was interested in _Katie Brown _of all people, so your judgement's obviously impaired, even for a Marine."

"Yeah, that was a bad call. Should've realized you were doing the Colonel."

"Yes, well, you live, you learn. So why don't you put a little more effort into the _living_ and the less into the reminiscing, hmm?"

"We both know how this is going to end."

"Don't talk like that. You've still got years left."

"To spend in some backwoods nursing home under an assumed name, with my family thinking I got blown apart by an IED!" The force of her words sends Laura into a coughing fit which can only be more painful than it sounds. "I can't live like that, Rodney. You've got to promise me-"

Marines: martyrs, every single one of them. "I will do no such thing, Captain. You're going to go to the infirmary and are let Carson wait on you hand and foot until we find a way to reverse this. It's going to be as embarrassing as anything to watch, but you're going to let him do it and be happy about it, end of story. So stop talking like that."

"Pull the other one."

"Captain-"

"Rodney," she says firmly, looking him straight in the eye (her own have never looked so bright, staring out at them from a body that's no longer her own; he wonders how he's never noticed they were such a remarkable shade of hazel before). "Promise me."

"I-"

And that's when the medical team arrives.

* * *

Carson's clear-headed enough to let Doctor Biro run lead on Cadman's case, but not enough to stay in the treatment area while they take care of her. Instead, he checks the two SFs over – they turn out to be concussed but otherwise unharmed – before retreating into his office. And since Rodney's not actually as cold-hearted as he likes his underlings to believe, he follows after.

Still, just because he's emotionally aware enough to not want Carson to be alone after learning that his girlfriend has had sixty years of her life sucked out of her, he's not actually _good_ at this sort of thing. It's all he can really do to pat the doctor's shoulder awkwardly and try to keep him from hyperventilating.

He doesn't know how long this goes on, only that it's long enough for John to show up.

* * *

"Hey Carson," John says softly, sauntering into the office with a quarter of his usual energy. "Laura's awake if you want to talk to her."

"I-"

"I think she'd really like to talk to you," John continues, his voice slipping into a tone Rodney's only heard him use on Atlantis and _Aurora_. Cadman must be much worse off than Biro had let on if John's pulling out that one out. "It will probably do you a world of good too."

Gesturing with the wad of Kleenex in his hands, "I don't want to upset her."

"I think the only thing that would upset her is if you stay in here. It doesn't even have to be for long, just long enough to let her know you still care."

"Of course I care! Why else do you think I'm carrying on like this."

"_I_ know that, Doc. But _I_'m not the one who needs to know."

Sighing, "Aye, you're right," Carson agrees. Then, hauling himself out of his chair, "I've dallied too long as it is. Does nae one any good for me to be moping about in here."

"I just came from talking with her. There's no one with her now."

"Thanks, Colonel – and you too Rodney."

"Yes, glad to help," he says, waiting until after Carson's out of sight before confiding, "Thank God you came when you did. I've no idea what to do when people start crying. I was about ready to call in Teyla for backup. So, you catch Michael? I've been off-radio since we got here."

John scowls, but there's no real heat in it. Even his hair looks depressed, laying entirely too flat on his head. "I got a whole clip in him, but it didn't slow him down in the least. He managed to get to one of the jumpers and dialled-out before we could stop him."

"How? He doesn't have the gene."

"Yeah, but the launch sequence is automatic, no gene required, and jumper's _permutatum_ overrides the one in the Control Room, so..."

"So he got away?"

"Pretty much." John rubs a hand across his face. "We followed after, but he'd already ditched the jumper and gated to another planet by then. Zelenka collected the last fifty or so addresses, but it's a safe bet he went from there to a Wraith-controlled planet."

"Taking with him the knowledge that Atlantis still stands," Rodney finishes. This means another Siege. Maybe even another suicide run and another chance for him to lose John in a way a thousand times worse than Carson's losing Laura right now. Yes, they have a ZedPM now and a means for recharging the others almost completed, but so had the Ancients and _they'd_ not been able to hold them off forever. They'd given up and fled – an option which the Expedition doesn't even have, not when the Wraith want nothing more than to follow them to a new, rich _feeding ground_.

"And he knows about me."

"You really think knowing that you're an Ancient will make that much of a difference when they come for us again?"

"Never underestimate the ability for the promise of revenge to paper over all other differences."

Frowning now, "Why do they hate your people so much? I mean, I get that you guys were at war, but I thought that was just a _control of the galaxy_ thing. Why would they want revenge, especially when as far as they're concerned they won?"

"We made them."

"You _what_?" Rodney squawks. This is news. Deep and troubling news he should've heard about two years ago.

"It was an accident, of course. No one could've foreseen Larenta Eyno's research having the result it did. But the fact is we made them. And the created will always seek to destroy their creators."

"That certainly complicates things."

"It does, doesn't it?" John laughs mirthlessly. "And here I am ten thousand years later, the only one left to clean it all up – and making the exact same mistakes."

"It's not your fault."

His words earn Rodney a sardonic smile. "It's adorable that you think that."

"I am _not_ adorable."

"Of course you aren't."

"What _is_ it with people thinking that today? Did I get the days mixed up? Is it April Fool's already? 'Cause, seriously, if anyone is going to be mistaken for _adorable _in this relationship, it's going to be you – and _you're _the one with the C4 fetish."

"What can I say? I like explosives. They remind me of Father." John glances quickly out the door, as if afraid someone might have overheard his reminiscing, and bites his lower lip.

It's then that Rodney remembers that Laura is their explosives expert, the one they'd gotten to replace Ford after John had been forced to shoot him. For a moment, John's whole friendship with the Captain suddenly makes sense. Not much, but enough.

"Cadman will be fine," he tries to assure his _amator_. They're hollow words, but John needs to hear them, looking sucker-punched as he does. But before he can think of better to say, there's a commotion in the main infirmary-

-and shouting-

-and the call for paddles, asystole-

* * *

Laura Cadman is declared dead at 0952 local time, from heart complications arising from the Wraith feeing process.

* * *

He doesn't expect John to come to his quarters that night.

(Hell, _Rodney_ hadn't thought he'd make it to his quarters that night, but Carson had insisted he didn't need someone to stay with him and, well, hadn't given him much choice about the matter.)

He's not asleep when John comes in. It's pitch black and he's facing away from the door, so he doesn't see him enter, but he can hear the shift in Atlantis' song when he does. It's less sorrowful, more concerned, and Rodney thinks this alone would've woken him if by some miracle he'd actually managed to fall asleep.

John, however, doesn't appear to realize he's awake. He just climbs into bed with him, barely pausing long enough to toe off his boots before plastering himself against him. John's arm is a little too tight around Rodney's chest and the buttons on his shirt dig a little too deeply into his back, but he scarcely dares to breathe, not with John like this.

It takes Rodney a minute or two, but he's fairly certain John's doing everything in his power not to cry.

And, well, _that_ is unacceptable, so he tries to twist around to face him-

-and John stills immediately. He probably would've jumped out of the bed entirely if Rodney hadn't been holding on to the arm wrapped around him for dear life. "Ancient or not, you're allowed to have feelings," he says quietly.

"I just killed another one of my best officers, Rodney. Atlantis wouldn't still be standing if I let out everything I was feeling."

Rage, deep and instinctual, flares in his chest. "_You_ didn't kill her, John."

"I convinced Elizabeta to let Carson test the retrovirus."

"It's not your fault," Rodney repeats as forcibly as he can.

(He wants to build a time machine so he can go back ten thousand years and let Janus have it for making his son believe that _the entire universe_ was his responsibility; so he can go back twenty-three days and talk himself out of going along with Operation Bellerophon in the first place; so he can go back twenty-eight hours and set off the fire suppression system in Michael's quarters, personal consequences be damned, so he can't hurt Laura.

(He wants to march straight to Elizabeth's quarters and make sure that she knows exactly how much she messed up on this one; to track down Teyla and ask her if she still believes the Wraith are capable of compassion; to find a mirror and see if he can still look himself in the eye.

(He wants to take all the blame John's feeling and put it on himself, because John tortures himself enough already and he won't sit back and watch him do it again, for something for which he is _completely blameless_.)

"_Michael_ killed Cadman, John. Her death is on his hands, not yours."

"No it's not."

"Yes it is."

"_No,_ it's-"

"She asked me to do it."

Rodney freezes, suddenly very glad that John's grip on him has been too tight for him to turn around and knowing all too well what he's talking about.

"She said it would be more merciful to let her die – that if I didn't do it, she'd find someone else, some other way. That this way Carson would never have to know. That Michael may have taken everything else from her, but at least this way he wouldn't have won."

"How?"

"Healing's difficult. It's easy to make a mistake, especially where something complicated like the heart is involved. I'm so bad at it, I didn't even have to try."

"Oh John," he breathes.

"It's alright. I owed her that much. I just..."

"It's still not your fault."

"Isn't it?"


End file.
